Thirteen Conversations About One Thing
by Ginny Baudelaire
Summary: How each of the 13 major characters in ASoUE tell their story, in their own words. Chapter 6: Quigley Quagmire.
1. Violet Baudelaire

**Hello to everyone who has stumbled across my fic! **

**Anyway, this is about how characters from ASoUE (thirteen, of course!) have been effected by the series of unfortunate events, and how they feel about it, in their own words. I hope you enjoy it!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events. Period. End of story. Fin. **

Chapter 1: V i o l e t B a u d e l a i r e

So there we were. The perfect family. Mother, father, sister, brother. And a beautiful, happy baby to seal the image of perfection. And that's how it really was, or how I felt it was - Perfect.

Until the fire.

After that, my life literally crashed down on me, what with the charred ruins of my once regal house, and the responsibility to raise my younger siblings. Klaus, though he never admitted it, was still a child. And Sunny – how would her life be effected by this?

Well, you know how Count Olaf was while we lived with him, but you do not know the horror we felt. That horror is unimaginable, not comprehensible even to the naked eye. No, to understand those weeks, you must experience it.

I still remember, ever so horridly clearly, the smell of Count Olaf's breath, garlic mixed with smoke, wine and ashes, whispering so closely, threats of death, of pain…

And so, guardian after guardian, death after death, poison, arson, drowning, being eaten alive. How do you think you'd feel if you saw these things, knowing you can't do anything about it, and see if you don't become depressed, feeling life as you knew it has gone, never to return again, never.

I swear, the only thing that kept me alive was my siblings, and the thirst and need to invent. These were the only things that remained from my wonderful life.

And then, a miraculous ray of hope – the Quagmires. Friends who understood me and my siblings, the sisterly bond between me and Isadora, the brotherly bond between me and Duncan. I remember holding hands with him, not in a romantic way, but still, it made me feel so safe. I remember being so delighted when I found out about Isadora's feelings for Klaus. I'd never, not even in my previous life, had girl talks, not even with my mother or friends. The prospect of them was so exciting, so new.

But, as usual, **he **came back. I'm pretty sure you know who I'm talking about. Girl talks, holding hands, nights of laughing and inventing, were whipped away by the pointless marathons he had us do every night. I remember running the never-ending white line, always running away, always returning, the circle never broken, the exhaustion never ceasing. Just like our series of unfortunate events. Never ending, always running, but always, always returning.

I'll never forget watching Isadora and Duncan screaming, pounding their white fists against the grimy back window of Olaf's long, black car that I have come to hate. I feel, right then, that I had experienced the true meaning of rage. Not like the temper tantrums you have as a child, or feeling particularly angry with a bully or punishment. That is spite, envy, irritation. No, the real meaning of rage is when all mercy, all compassion leaves you, replaced by a white hot creature in the pit of your stomach, gnawing away, leaving nothing but a desire for revenge. It was then that I started to really, _truly_ hate Olaf.

Our time with the Squalors, or as Klaus jestingly calls it, "The Squalor squalor", was also miserable. I do hate Esme Squalor, but nothing will ever touch on my pure loathing towards Olaf.

But now we come to our time in the town of V.F.D., and even though this experience was unsatisfying, unpleasant, it was not miserable. "Unhappy", maybe, but not _miserable_. I can't help but look back and inwardly smile at all the absurd rules they had there. "There must not be for than fifteen nuts on the elders' chocolate sundaes"… yes, I think I'd call that absurd. And besides, there's nothing _miserable_ about reuniting with your best friends, throwing your arms around them, murmuring words of jubilation you don't even know you're saying, and never will…

But I knew that, like always, such joy would never last with Count Olaf at our heels. I accepted this fact with resignation, and that is why I never finished climbing that balloon ladder, knowing that **he **would find us, and would do to Isadora and Duncan what he would to us.

The events at Heimlich Hospital, as anyone reading this knows, have been summarized in the _Daily Punctilio_. What has not been summarized is how they treated me, rather abused me, during the time of my being taken hostage and the 'cranioectomy'. They did not physically abuse me. No, what they did was much worse. They **verbally** abused me. They tried to break me down, tell them what I read in the file room. But I would never tell. They nearly drove me mad, but I would never tell. And so, what did they do? They drugged me and attempted to decapitate me. It sounds like some twisted, immature fantasy, doesn't it?

I remember, perhaps more clearly than anything, being curled up in Count Olaf's car trunk, unbeknownst to him. I'll never forget the stench of that trunk. It smelled like Death. Decay. Dank. Depressed.

Caligari Carnival was like a joke. A grim, pathetic, gory joke. That's all I can say about it.

When Sunny was kidnapped, I remember thinking I had nothing to live for. I was a failure. My parents had always told me to protect my siblings, but I had failed. Everything was my fault. I know better now, though. It wasn't my fault. It was Olaf's, and no one else's.

And then, a blessing. A blessing in the form of Quigley Quagmire. And especially a blessing and a miracle for me. Oh, did I just say that?

I think, from the fact that I blush while I write this, it's evident that what happened between Quigley and I stays between Quigley and I.

When I lost Quigley to the waters of the Stricken Stream (or when I thought I had lost him), I felt I had lost my best friend and my first love. I didn't care what happened to me after that. I did care, however, what happened to Klaus and Sunny. Keeping them alive was worth dying for.

And now we come to our adventures on the Queequeg. Captain Widdershins, as the reporters have so scrutinizingly researched, had been volatile in many ways, as had his daughter, Fiona. I always, from the beginning of our voyages, suspected that, somehow, they would betray us. I thought, from my many times of being betrayed before, that I might have been just paranoid. I know, now, to always, **always** listen to my foresight.

Well, I suppose you know the rest, the details the media managed to scrape up. I'd never tell them anything, not after what they did to us. First we're _murderers_, then we're _heroes_… how quick to turn the world is, so that they can have someone to look up to as a model of that non-existent thing, perfection…

Well, I suppose I've finished. It is for you to interpret it as you wish. If you think me a delusional, spoiled, hormonal teenager, it's okay. If you understand me and think me a heroine, it's okay. I know what I went through, and I know how I endured it. That is all.


	2. Klaus Baudelaire

**Hello again! I didn't feel very confident about this story until I had gotten so many wonderful reviews, and now I have that little surge of energy in the back of my head which is the urge to write. Thus, I update sooner! Thanks Everyone!**

**Lemony the dragon: You're absolutely right, I can't wait for October 18! Less than 2 weeks, now!**

**Zavi: Of course I'll write one about Quigley! He'll probably be sixth or seventh, though. I loved your V/Q oneshot, BTW!**

**Proud shipper: Thanks! I did try to keep her in character.**

**Spyzeh: You really like it? Thank you so much! (Gives you big, fluffy cookie)**

**By now you have probably fainted from boredom. If not, however, please enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: "Beauty is truth, truth beauty… that is all ye need to know." And the truth is, I don't own ASoUE. (Nor do I own that quote by John Keats.)**

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Chapter 2: K l a u s B a u d e l a i r e

"I cannot live without books."

A man by the name of Thomas Jefferson once said this. Thomas Jefferson went on to become an architect, linguist, drafter of The Declaration of Independence, and third President of The United States. I think that this goes to show that people really cannot live without books – or, at least,_ shouldn't_ live without books. I, personally, can't.

Books have always been my passion. From the age of three, baby toys, such as stuffed blocks and rocking horses, never particularly caught my fancy. No, it was always books, even if they were filled with bunnies and bears. I remember my mother, who was so impressed with my premature literacy, reading me to sleep with such books as _Anna Karenina_ and _The Odyssey_. I also remember a book about a lake explorer. A rather mundane story, really. (A/N: Ivan Lachrymose, Lake Explorer!)

And then, when I was finally old enough, my father introduced me to my first love: the library. This was the one place that, I felt, really was perfect. This had to be the one thing that didn't have a flaw, or a catch. To me, it had every book in the world, and then some. Anything that interested me, anything, was at my reach literally. And if it wasn't, there was always a ladder. It was truly my heaven on earth.

Until that day, on Briny Beach, that our lives were changed forever.

And then, it was all gone. I realized, then, that not everything is flawless. The library had one flaw, and that was that it could just go up in flames, leaving me standing there in its ashes, never giving me the chance to discover all its secrets. That had been my life ambition, at that young age. To learn everything I possibly could, and after that, use it for good.

But soon, my perfect childhood dream was whipped away, replaced by my new life goal: survival. At no age should that have to be the ultimate goal, for then you miss life itself.

In life, I compared everything to books. One of my favorite thrillers had been "The Count of Monte Cristo". If you have ever read it, you know of the villain, Fernand Mondego. And in the case of Count Olaf, he was a living, breathing Fernand Mondego, having become a Count through murder, being in debt, and always seeking out the young, beautiful women. And Violet had been intended to be a pawn in his chess game of money, fame and greed.

I understood Violet's pain through all of it. I was miserable, but I knew she was beyond that. You could see it in her eyes, the skin of her face dry, cracked and pale from silent tears. She is still the strongest person I've ever known. And, of course, the cleverest.

And even though my life was far from happy, I did sometimes have the familiar jolt of excitement that only reading could give me. Although now, every book I read, I read to keep Violet, Sunny and I alive. Books were the one thing that saved our lives.

And there was always so little time. So little time…

And so, my sisters and I continued our lives in complete, uninterrupted misery. That is, until we went to Prufrock.

When I first saw Prufrock Preparatory School, I thought that any school that named itself after one of T. S. Elliot's characters couldn't be a very happy place. But when we met the Quagmires, my attitude changed. Especially when I met Isadora.

When my parent's library still stood, I read many mythology picture books. Mythology picture books always had pictures of Venus, Aphrodite, Helen of Troy, who were said to be the most beautiful women in the world. And they were quite beautiful, with rosy cheeks, golden curls and sparkling blue eyes.

But when I met Isadora, Venus and all the others, I realized, may be beautiful, but not like Isadora. Not only was her skin flawless and hair the most breathtaking I've ever seen (how I longed to run my fingers through it), but more importantly, she had a beautiful, poetic spirit. I now wish, more than anything, that I had told her how I felt. But there was always so little time…

And then, just like that, my one source of happiness was gone, because of Olaf. If I had had any happiness before then, any at all, it was now gone, replaced by the worst emotion of all: nothing. I felt nothing anymore. I didn't want to live anymore. But I needed to live. For Violet's sake.

And when we (well, actually **Violet**) found the ersatz elevator, I honestly thought that climbing down that dark, depressing shaft would get us nothing, but Violet knew otherwise. "There's always something", she always says. (A/N: Yes, I did take that from the movie.) But I don't think even she knew that our only friends and my first crush were waiting at the bottom.

But when we came back for them, they were gone. And that horrible feeling of emptiness engulfed my soul, blocking my mind from thought. She was gone. Gone.

And I failed to realize, I felt so empty, that Olaf would probably _know_ what the Quagmires told us, and so he would _know _to put something in the auction catalog to fool us. And thus, I was fooled by "Very Fancy Doilies".

And I still couldn't feel anything. Violet felt rage, Sunny felt pure sorrow, but I, I felt _nothing_. The worst of all.

I don't think it really hit me until we were in the V.F.D. town prison, and I was staring at the sodden loaf of bread in my hands, that it hit me. Our parents were gone. And replaced with nothing, not even a decent guardian.

And so, it was then that my childhood left me, both literally and figuratively. After that, the empty feeling was gone. Replaced by something beyond rage. Wrath, perhaps? Loathing? I really don't know.

I remember the last time I felt I had heaven on earth, when Isadora threw her arms around me, jumping out of the V.F.D. town fountain. Which made losing her again just minutes later a living hell.

But I don't think I had ever experienced horror fully until I had thought I had lost Violet. I understood, then, the pressure she felt, watching out for Sunny and I, always ready to sacrifice herself for us. And then, those criminals, those _monsters_, wanted me to cut off her head myself. They did think I was Flo, but that is no excuse. But, of course, I didn't do it. I would never cut off anyone's head, not even Olaf's.

Caligari Carnival was carnage, pure carnage. Sadistic people laughing, lions thrashing, it really was a slaughter house, meant to entertain. Well, it sure didn't entertain me.

But one does not realize what they have, until they think it's gone. So is the case with Sunny, when she was kidnapped by Olaf. Watching that long, filthy car wind up into the mountains, as we toppled down the hill, out of control, I was sure that it was the end.

But it was not the end.

Very soon after that, we met Quigley. Quigley looked just like Duncan, but he was quiet and more emotional, just like Isadora. Quigley really was my best friend, someone I could really identify with. I could tell, right away, that Violet and he had a crush on each other. It was impossible not to.

When we lost Quigley (temporarily), Violet was, once again, desolate and isolated her feelings from Sunny and I. I felt so sorry for her, for all of us.

But then, I met Fiona.

I really liked Fiona, but I could never feel the same about her as I did Isadora. It was just – **different**. She was more like a sister, a mother. And so, when she kissed me goodbye, it felt like kissing Violet, which would be really, **really** weird. I just feel so confused toward Fiona. I don't know what else to say.

And then, we returned to where it all began: Briny Beach. It felt like a sort of reunion. A depressing, icy reunion. But then, we met Kit Snicket.

The rest, you've probably heard before. About Hotel Denouemont, about our trials, about all the interview requests that plagued us, and still do. I will never, ever accept one. **Ever**.

But now, I wonder whether our series of unfortunate events was, really, fruitless. And that's a tough question. We lost our parents, our life, our beloved library. But we gained friends, had our first loves, and even read a few books and learned a few secrets along the way. Over all, I wouldn't call those few years of misery _worthless_. I wouldn't call it anything. It is, as Robert Pinskey entitles his famous poem, Impossible To Tell.

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So there's what I think Klaus thinks! I'm not as proud of this chapter as the first, and I may come back and change it, but I hope you liked it! Sunny Baudelaire's next! 


	3. Sunny Baudelaire

**Hello again! To all my wonderful reviewers, thank you so much! It's SO rewarding after a hard day of school. Again, thanks so much!**

**Spyzeh: Yeah, that just came to me, and I had to write it. And it is good to know that there are others out there with my strange sense of humor! But I'm even weirder, I laugh at stuff I write myself…**

**Zavi: Once again, you make me proud of my work! Thank you, and PLEASE keep reviewing! You're more help than you think! **

**Proud shipper: Thanks! I hope you aren't disappointed with Sunny's POV.**

**Klaus-Izzy Girl: Thank you! And you don't have to wait long, I'll do Isadora next! Cool penname, too!**

**(Note: Around the time Sunny writes this, she's about seven. Therefore, she gives a simpler, more innocent approach.)**

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Chapter 3: S u n n y B a u d e l a i r e

I don't remember much of my life before the fire. It's all in fragments, really, like a beautiful, stained glass window that has been smashed to pieces, hopelessly beyond repair. I vaguely remember Klaus and Violet standing over my crib, my mother making a fruit salad, and sitting on the living room floor by the crackling fire while my father read the paper, gnawing on a chunk of wood.

My family has always been concerned about my biting habit. Klaus told me that he read about something called TMJ syndrome, and that I might have it. (A/N: That's when you bite and grind your teeth out of stress.) But I didn't have any syndrome or other. I just liked to bite. At that young age, I felt that I could solve anything by biting.

But you can't stop your parents' deaths by biting, can you?

At that age, you would think that I was too young to understand what was happening. I didn't know what exactly was happening, that was true. But there is a difference between knowing and understanding. Babies are sponges of feeling, and I could certainly feel what Violet and Klaus were feeling. They were unhappy. And I was unhappy, though I wasn't quite sure why.

During this unpleasant chapter of my life, I always judged a house by what you could bite there. My parents' house, for example, had everything I could possibly want to satisfy my gnawing needs. In the case of Count Olaf's house, however, there were only rocks. Hard, cold rocks that threatened to crack your teeth if you so much as nibbled them. And it always smelled rotten there. Whether it was rotten fish, rotten cigars or just Olaf's rotten personality, it was always rotten in one way or another.

But nothing compared to the cage. I spent the loneliest moments of my short life in that cage. I had never experienced horror like that, swaying uncontrollably in that small iron compartment, icy raindrops slapping you constantly, taunting you…

Violet, Klaus and I all grew up that night. We knew then, perhaps more than ever, that we could only survive if we looked out for each other.

One thing I do remember was Uncle Monty's Incredibly Deadly Viper. I know it sounds very strange, but I felt as if we understood each other, both having misnomers. He was not deadly in the least, and I could hardly call my life very sunny. We had a bond. An odd one, perhaps, but a bond nonetheless.

And so, we went from guardian to guardian, each one meeting a steadily more gruesome fate at the hands of Count Olaf. I, thankfully, don't remember much of it. Violet told me I was very brave, but I still don't remember fencing an orthodontist with my teeth like she tells me I did. Must've been pretty cool, though…

And I'm sorry to say that my memory fails me for all these unfortunate events. But I start to recall everything from a certain moment in the Mortmain Mountains. I so clearly remember now, standing on the edge of that icy waterfall, dropping to what seemed the depths of infinity, literally having nothing but the thin, torn nightgown that my mother had bought me on my freezing back. I was so sure I would die. I just knew. Violet and Klaus were my lifeline, my only connection, my only hope. But, in my naivete, I was sure they couldn't find me.

But my siblings had more faith than that. If they didn't, they themselves could have died. But I've definitely learned that you never underestimate Violet and Klaus Baudelaires' minds.

But I don't think even Violet and Klaus could imagine, could fathom what it's like to be at the hands of the Medusoid Mycelium. It felt like a thousand needles, hairs and pins were spreading throughout my throat and lungs. (**A/N: I myself am not sure how it would feel, but I think it might be like that.**) I'm sure she didn't mean to, but Fiona made me feel inhuman, quarantining me in yet another cage. At least I could breathe in that cage Olaf put me in. But I don't know what's much worse than not being able to breathe while you have fungus breeding in your throat. What you need most **is **air. Fiona seemed even _fascinated_ by what was happening to me.

I know I shouldn't, but I've always wondered why Fiona never read the second half of that poem about the Mycelium. The remedy that would save my life was, after all, right there…

Violet has told me not to write any further. If I do, she says, the media will be on a "wild goose chase" to find me. I assume that means they'll follow me.

What I can write, however, is an afterthought, a word which here means "an explanation that occurs to one after an event." My afterthought is that what happened to my siblings and I was like a twisted game of hide and seek. We were always hiding, Olaf, the detectives, and now the paparazzi were always seeking. Funny, isn't it? How a simple concept of a childhood game could adapt to our series of unfortunate events. I guess that's how it always is, though. It always comes back to the basics.

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It was short, I know, but I had a bit of writer's block in Sunny's case. Besides, I wanted to start writing Isadora's POV! (Ahem, convince Isadora to write her POV **herself**. cough cough) Anyway, Isadora Quagmire's next! 


	4. Isadora Quagmire

**Hello to all my dear readers! I could only reach Spyzeh by review, since I'd either already reviewed all your stories or you haven't written any, but if you haven't heard, this is it:**

**THE TITLE FOR BOOK THE TWELFTH HAS LEAKED!**

**I won't say what it is because I respect those patient enough to wait until October 18 (I myself am not), but for anyone else, it's at "the quiet world" website. I'm sorry the URL got cut off before, it's not actually at: **** YIPPEEE!**

**Anyway, to my dear reviewers:**

**Spyzeh: I love Sunny too. She's my baby! (takes Sunny) oh wait, she's a major plot point. (puts Sunny back) And yes, all S/IDV shippers REJOICE! **

**Proud shipper: Thank you! I was afraid you might be disappointed because I was originally going to write it in Sunny's 'baby-speak', and then translate it, but it was just too time-consuming. And wait no longer, this is the next one! (obviously!)**

**Fiona/Klaus: Interesting idea, but I'm sorry to say that I used, I repeat, USED to be a Fiona/Klaus shipper. I'm also sorry to say that I will always be an avid Violet/Quigley shipper.**

**Zavi: Yippee! I'm glad to hear that I made Sunny more interesting, and yours and others reviews continue to make me so proud of my work.**

**SUPERBRAIN: I was actually not bored at all! And yes, I own all the books and am planning to buy Book the Twelfth the morning of October 18. And then, after homework, nothing will be able to detract me from it!**

**Klaus-Izzy Girl: Glad you liked it! And yes, WOOT for Izzy! She's so cool…**

**Worthy: Here it is!**

**And finally, the disclaimer: Last time I checked, I was not a man, and not married with a young child, and had not written one of the best series of all time. In other words, I don't own it.**

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**And now, by popular demand:**

Chapter 4: I s a d o r a Q u a g m i r e

I spent my childhood listening closely to words, trying to understand them. You see, a word has many facets, and are, in and of themselves, like books, taken to be interpreted in a thousand different ways. Their meaning can be changed by the tone they are used in, but they themselves stay the same. It may take one years to understand the beauty of words, as it did me. When I did, a whole new world was open, full of ways to express my newfound love. I would work for hours at my desk, working in a trance of feverish dedication, feeling as if poetry as I wrote it had never been even thought of before.

I would go back down to my parents' library the next day, though, and find that my work were the mere attempts of a child, and nothing compared to the great poets of times before me.

And yet, I would still fall into whatever it was I felt when I wrote poetry. Duncan called it weird, Quigley found it even a little cute. But I didn't care. Those times were the times I felt, or at least sensed, happiness. I even wrote about those times:

_When I write poetry,_

_I'm happy as can be_.

You can see, from that, how really undeveloped my poetry was. But for brief intervals of time, I thought it amazing, even groundbreaking.

And this is where my melancholy story begins.

The day of the fire was just an ordinary, Saturday morning. Duncan was reading the newspaper, and Quigley was etching away at the world map he had been working on for six years. It covered his bedroom walls now. And Mother and Father were in the library. They never told me what they did there, they said they were just "researching." I would pass by once in a while to pick a poetry book, and they were, indeed, researching. I never knew about what, though. And I might never know.

It was then I smelled smoke. I just thought Mom was burning her casserole. But then I heard Mother scream. I have yet to hear a worse sound.

After Mother screamed, it was a haze of hurry. I remember trying to collect all my poetry together, being pushed into the library with Duncan. I could hear Quigley's shouts in the background. Duncan and I wanted to wait for him, but Mother wouldn't let us. The next thing I know, we were forced into an underground passage through a trapdoor under the carpet, and Mother saying she'd come back for us.

But she didn't.

We waited for hours. We then heard boots, firemen's boots, pounding over us. Duncan managed to push the door open. The worst sight of our lives met our eyes. Everything was gone, reduced to smolder and ashes. Including our parents. And Quigley.

We searched everywhere for them, calling their names, but to no avail. I remember going to Quigley's room, and seeing his map, the map he had worked on for half his life, nothing now but a heap of sizzling rubbish. And all of Duncan's newspaper collection, that he had almost finished reading, had the same fate.

I didn't want to look in my room, but I forced myself to. All of it, or nearly all of it, was the same. But, miraculously, one paper survived. One blank piece of paper had not been burned, had been saved by the firemen. Through my grief, the urge to write persevered. Dipping my quill in ashes and water since all my ink was burned, I wrote:

_There always seems to be a fire_

_When your need for none is dire_.

I kept this poem in my pocket for a long time. It was my only remain, my only reminder of the fire, and I would never give it to anyone unless they meant as much to me as my family did. But now I'm getting ahead of myself.

Duncan and I didn't want to leave. If we left, we felt that the life we knew would be gone forever. It already was, but we felt safe in our parents' house, even if it was now dust and ashes. The firemen wouldn't let us stay, though.

Our parents' will specified that we be sent to a nearby boarding school called Prufrock Preparatory School. And this is where my new life begins.

Prufrock Prep had everything a half-decent prep school usually has: bullies, an unfair principal (to say the least), and greasy food with as much taste as my wool sweater's sleeve. For three semesters we lived in the Orphans' Shack. But then we were given our own room. We were just told that a guardian had signed for us, and that new orphans would need it anyway. After that, I didn't think much of it.

That is, until I met those new orphans.

There is the saying that first impressions were always wrong. I, however, could argue that statement, as everyone I have met after my parents died were exactly what my first impression expected. And it was the same for the Baudelaires, as they were as kind, intelligent and understanding as their first impressions implied. Especially Klaus Baudelaire.

There were three things in life that would give me a thousand inspirations for poems at a glance, that would make me forget all else and focus on them. The first was nature. The second was my family. The third was Klaus.

Klaus understood my desire to write as no one else did. He understood the beauty of words, and was poetic himself. I will not plague you with every couplet I ever wrote about him, every thing I ever thought about him, as they are too numerous to count. As scholars say artists went through periods of art subjects, I'd say I am in my Klaus Period, and I think I always will be.

That poem I mentioned earlier? I said that I would never give it to anyone unless I cared about them as I did my family? I gave it to Klaus. He understood the poem as no one else, not even I, did, and I felt I could trust him with it. That is how love is, when you find that one person that knows you better than you do, even though they may barely know you.

But fate is cruel, and ripped my beloved from me. When I was trapped in Count Olaf's car, watching Klaus call my name, tears streaming down his face, I knew then that he was my one and only. But I couldn't have him. Olaf made sure of that.

And so, my happiness ended, Olaf replaced it with what he prided himself on: fear. Fear and terror. I was half-in, half-out of the world then, I felt. When I was awake, Count Olaf's threats, interlaced with colorful language, echoed in my ears. When I slept, however, I dreamt of Klaus, who filled my mind with so many poems that I so longed to write, and yet I could not, as the will to left me at my every waking moment. I knew I couldn't be happy again until I saw his face.

What kept me alive now? Duncan. Duncan is the strongest person I know, and he had the tenacity the most gifted journalists had that I, a mere poet, could not muster. Poetry could not help us now. But Duncan insisted that I not give up. He made me continue writing. And so I wrote the one thing that was on my mind:

_I could soar on the wings of a dove_

_when I think of Klaus, my one true love._

Duncan was my one inspiration to keep going now. As long as we were together, we would survive. I had to reassure myself of that every night before I could go to sleep, hoping that tomorrow might be my one salvation.

And my dream was fulfilled, when I was shaken awake by Duncan, who claimed that he could hear the Baudelaires coming for us down an elevator shaft. I couldn't believe Duncan would lie to me like this. I would have slapped him had our confinement been just a little bit larger. But when I saw who was coming down the elevator shaft, I could have hugged Duncan to death.

Violet's voice was just as gentle and maternal as I remembered it, and Sunny was just as sweet. And Klaus's hand was even warmer than I remembered. I would have done anything to tell him about V.F.D., tell him how I felt about him. But:

_There is never enough time_

_To tell someone: "You are mine"…_

And so, my one source of true happiness was taken from me again. We were shipped off on a plane to the Village of Foul Devotees and stuffed in a fountain shaped like a crow. Duncan and I, in spite of ourselves, actually found this funny, it was so ridiculous. And laughing made me feel warm and sunny, even though in reality I was cold and drenched.

When we found out the Baudelaires were also in town, and shouting to them and banging on the walls of the steel fountain proved fruitless, Duncan and I put our heads together for a plan (which we had to do literally, as our confinement was so small). I wrote the poetry, but Duncan came up with the acrostic idea. And my reward for my hard work? I think finally being able to throw myself into Klaus's welcoming arms was enough for me.

But I lost him again, just minutes later, and have yet to see him again. I thought I would be stuck forever in that hot air balloon. I was wrong, though…

I have no time to write the rest of my woeful tale, nor would I if I did. What I always have time for, however, is poetry. I know no other way to end this story of my life, but with poetry, the first of the two loves of my life. And so I will end it with the first and fourth stanzas of "Rise", from Charles Baudelaire's one work, _Les Fleurs Du Mal_:

_Above the ponds, the valleys,_

_Mountains, woods, clouds, seas,_

_Beyond the sun, ethers, _

_Beyond the borders of the spangled spheres…_

_Behind the troubles and vast sorrows,_

_Who charge of their weight their misty existence,_

_Happy that which of a vigorous wing_

_To spring towards the luminous and serene fields…_

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So there it is! I know this chapter has been long-awaited, and I hope that I satisfied your curiosity! Please tell me in a review who you'd like me to write first, Duncan or Quigley? Thanks, and I'll be eagerly waiting for your opinions!


	5. Duncan Quagmire

**Hello to all of my accommodating, basic, calm, darling, emblematic, frisky, grinning, human, innocent, jumping, kept, limited, meek, nap-loving, official, pretty, quarantined, recent, scheduled, tidy, understandable, victorious, wholesome, xylophone, young, and zippered readers and reviewers:**

**My, I fell spiffy today! What does that word mean, anyway? (looks it up on a search engine) "smart, stylish"… well, not exactly, but close enough!**

**Anyway, a few reasons for why I haven't updated: The main reason is homework, followed by a trip to the beach and dwelling on the fact that my favorite series are drawing to a close. (Seriously, I dwell on that kind of stuff.) I've also been working on finishing my Harry Potter fic, "Trapped Within." I've also had writer's block, and rewrote this chapter several times. I'm afraid that all of my lovely readers and reviewers will not stick around after Quigley's done. Please don't abandon this story! You're one of my main inspirations!**

**Anyway, to all of my wonderful reviewers:**

**Spyzeh: Counterfeit Concierge would have been a very cool title, I agree. And my thoughts exactly on who should come next!**

**Zavi: Thank you so much! Don't you just love that when things like couplets and certain lines just come to you while you're writing? And yes, as much as I also love Quigley (and a certain Ronald Weasley), I agree that Duncan should come first.**

**Klaus-Izzy Girl: Glad to hear it! And I did send you an e-mail, I hope you got it!**

**Proud shipper: Thanks! I actually thought that cliffy was a little lame, but not any more, thanks to you!**

**SUPERBRAIN: I know, and that's why I was a Klaus/Fiona shipper at first. (dodges several bludgers from K/I shippers who also happen to be Quidditch beaters, if that's possible) But if you think about how she broke his heart, and how it was more of a one-sided romance, she doesn't really deserve him. And that's where Isadora should come in. And some people even complain about age difference, but they don't say anything about Sunny/Duncan or Quigley fics! I even saw a Sunny/Olaf one once… (shudders) And yes, I happen to have TBB, rare edition, and have read "Beatrice"!**

**Imanishotgirl: I'm glad you liked it!**

**SnicketSister: You really think so? I thought I just made them all sound the same. Thank you, though, you really encouraged me!**

**ChoFrog09 (all four times): Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! Yours and others praise is like eating a yummy batch of chocolate chip cookies, my personal favorite! **

**Oblivion: Don't worry, Quigley will be next!**

**Sugary Snicket: Woohoo, we do rock!**

**Reviewer: thanks! This one is about Duncan.**

**Anyway, the tally for whether Duncan or Quigley comes next was:**

**Duncan: 6**

**Quigley: 3**

**And so, this chapter is about Duncan! But don't worry, Quigley will most definitely be next!**

**And now, without any more of my drawling, the disclaimer: It would be most unfortunate to say I own A Series of Unfortunate Events, as this is in no way true. With all due respect, Ginny Baudelaire.**

**And, finally, the chapter itself!**

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Chapter 5: D u n c a n Q u a g m i r e

Everyone has their own interpretation of events. Everyone thinks they're right, and everyone wants their story told. What many people don't realize is, there isn't enough time for everyone to tell their side of the story. There isn't enough time in the world to decipher what is true, and what is not. It really is impossible to find "black and white without the gray." But I do the best I can, to find the truth.

You see, I've always wanted to be a reporter. Even as a child, I could see the corruption in the media, especially in _The Daily Punctilio_. So-called reporters only reported sensationalism, and used shock value to attract readers. And the sad thing is, well-known, supposedly reliable newspapers were just as bad as tabloids, just covered with a fancy font and official-looking headlines. At times, I felt only I knew the truth. But as I said, everyone wants to tell their story, but not everyone can.

And so it was, when my parents died in a fire, that I wanted my story told.

But, of course, the shocking and sudden deaths of loved ones isn't nearly as important as the city's sixth most important financial advisor making a profit out of it. Mine and my sister's story was smoothly glossed over and snugly fit into a smudged sentence in a side article. The rest of the article was about the grand reputation of the boarding school we were to be sent off to, so that the newspaper consumers would quickly forget about us and our untold tale.

And so, we were rushed off to Prufrock Prep. A school as dark and depressing as the character from T. S. Elliot's first major work it's named after. I couldn't understand why our parents would send us here, they just wouldn't. This couldn't be happening to me. It just couldn't. That was the only way I could keep myself going, to convince myself it was all a dream.

But it wasn't a dream. It was real. The realest thing that had happened to me in my entire life.

I remember one night in the Orphan's Shack especially well. Leaning my aching head against the moldy straw, my feet numb from the crabs biting them, and listening to Isadora crying herself to sleep, it hit me. This wasn't a dream. Our parents weren't coming back, I didn't have anyone to run to, no one to tell me it would all be alright. I had never felt so alone in my entire life. For the first time that I could remember, I cried. Tears rolling down my face felt so foreign, so unnatural. I was forced to grow up that night. I thought all hope was lost.

But not all hope was lost. The Baudelaires were proof of that.

The Baudelaires were so much like us, it was as if we had known them all our lives. Violet had the same patience as my mother, and Klaus had the memory of my father. And Sunny loved carrots, just like Quigley. They, too, wanted their story told, and were confused about the complex organization that was V.F.D. We all felt like we were helpless flies, slowly being wound into a black widow's web, not sure what would happen to us, or under what circumstances. But we could reach out to each other, no matter how tightly we were wound in this web of secrecy, of confusion.

And then the black widow came, in the form of Count Olaf. Isadora and I were looking out for the Baudelaires so intently that we didn't realize how much we were in danger as well.

That night, after Count Olaf had taken us away from the Baudelaires and locked us in a cage, I knew I wouldn't be at peace until our story was told. Olaf could put me in a metal cage, but he couldn't cage my memory. He didn't realize that.

And so I wrote. I wrote until pencils were stubs and pens ran dry. I wrote until my finger were cold and numb and trembling with fear. I wrote with a fierce determination, a longing for vengeance. I wrote for Isadora, my parents, Quigley, the Baudelaires. But most of all, I wrote for me. I knew I could never sleep well until the truth be told. And so I wrote.

All my writing paid off. I couldn't help but be proud of how every page, every inch of my commonplace book was covered in ink and lead. I felt that I had finally proven myself to the world, that I could be brave enough to have been where I was, and lived to tell the tale. I knew that I could prove the power of the written word.

And so, when the Baudelaires came down that elevator shaft, I was so eager to show them my work. But the Baudelaires wanted us to wait. At the time, I thought them crazy. But I realized they were right. They would have been taken by Olaf as well, and then all hope would have been lost. We were each others' only hope.

Hope was all I had to hang on to anymore. Count Olaf took many things from us: our family, the Baudelaires, our house. But he couldn't take one thing: hope. Hope that you'll see another day. Hope that you'll see your friends again. Hope that justice would be done to those who deserved it. Hope in the ties of family and friends. Try as he may, Olaf could not take that away from us.

When we were in the fountain of V.F.D., right after we had found out that the Baudelaires were just minutes away, Isadora and I each had our own plan. I insisted that we just write everything down, but Isadora insisted we do it through poetry. And so began the old argument that we had had for as long as we could remember. I would say that poetry was trivial compared to journalism, and that it wouldn't do us any good. Isadora, as always, that poetry had no guise or corruption, it was beautiful in and of itself. In the end, Isadora won, but I suggested the acrostic idea. She at least always gives me credit for that.

And Isadora was right. Through the simplicity and beauty of poetry, something I was stubbornly blind to before, the Baudelaires found us. Our hope had finally paid off.

But joy was short-lived, as was all our hard work, all of our dreams. What could do something as horrific as this? Two little words: harpoon gun.

That was something that no newspaper could gloss over, no reporter could refuse to realize. The use of a harpoon gun on birds could not be transformed into an act of fashion, of self-defense. At least, that's what I thought. As usual, the reporters ignored any wrong done by the rich and focused on the ridiculous accusations of murder on orphaned children. I was awestruck at how ignorant, how gullible reporters and their consumers could be. As Dorothy Parker once said, "Their ignorance was an Empire State Building of ignorance. You had to admire it for its size."

But, during my final days on the hot air balloon, I came to a revelation. Since our unfortunate journey began, I thought that there were only two kinds of people: those out for themselves, and those out for only others. I realized, though, that I was terribly wrong. Everyone is out for themselves, in one way or another, good or bad intent. Everyone wanted justice done to others, whether righteous justice or not.

Dorothy Parker once said, "I hate writing; I love having written." And that's how it was for me, on writing our story. It was actually painful to write what had happened to us,

writing all of Count Olaf's threats, all of his vile actions. But, when I looked back on the finished product, I realized, even if it was destroyed by the harpoon gun, that I had actually achieved something, had actually finished a work of journalism. My story had not been told yet, that was true. But for me, I didn't even want revenge anymore. Nothing like that mattered anymore. I had proven myself, I could live through such a horror story, and not only live to tell the tale, but to write it all down.

As I sit here at this typewriter, I am at a loss for how to end this. I do not have the inventive skills of Violet Baudelaire, nor can I remember anything and everything that would fit for an ending, like Klaus Baudelaire. I do not have the sweet innocence of Sunny Baudelaire, nor can I so eloquently quote great poets, like my dear sister can, nor can I map out something from beginning to end, like my brother can. I am just as my dear mother used to call me: Duncan Quagmire, junior reporter. That is just the way I am. And so, I will end this the best way I know how, by quoting the great Dorothy Parker:

"_I shall stay the way I am, because I do not give a damn."_

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So there you have Duncan Quagmire! I had a lot of trouble with him, as I have had terrible writer's block, since my dad has grounded me from my Ipod (and, to add insult to injury, my headphones). Music always cures my writer's block, but as I can't listen to it at my computer now, it's a bit tricky to write. I managed, however, to throw together the bizarre poem below:

As I sit here at my desk next to a wall so blue,

Eating a mealy apple that is too easy to chew,

I wonder what will save me from this disconsolate mood,

And that is you, dear readers: REVIEW! REVIEW! REVIEW!

(BTW, Quigley's next! ;D)


	6. Quigley Quagmire

**Hello, and welcome to another chapter of "Thirteen Conversations About One Thing", written by the one and only insane Ginny Baudelaire! **

**Anyways, to all my reviewers who read or don't read my responses, I'll just put them up here anyway:**

**Zavi: Yeah, Ol' Lemony doesn't tell us much about Duncan's personality. I tried to make him objective and angsty, I hope it worked! And I'm glad you enjoyed that paragraph, as I enjoyed writing it. I just love writing really meaningful, thoughtful stuff!**

**ChoFrog09: I thank you for your sympathies concerning my iPod. What's worse is, my sister's iPod was stolen, so she got the really new iPod Nano! Grrr… And of course I'll do Fiona! And of the ones I have written, Isadora is also my favorite.**

**Mistress Spyzeh: OMG, You're right! Now whenever I see it, I'll think of Charlie's Angels! That reminds me, I know a girl who was going to be Charlie's Angels with her friends this Halloween, but that's just from the Ginny Baudelaire Memory Bank of Randomness. And I love cheesy poetry! XD**

**Proud shipper: Yeah, I found the last line appropriate. It just sounds a lot like Duncan to me, I don't know why! And I also enjoyed just writing angst without fluff, it was a nice break. Although I'm sorry to say that fluff may be necessary in this chapter! (cough Violet cough Quigley)**

**Klaus-Izzy Girl: Ah, you have unfortunately been subjected to the many faults of AOL. This happens to my mom sometimes on there. Anyway, thanks, and I hope you enjoy Quigley!**

**Nicoleb: I'm glad you liked Sunny! And of course I'll do Olaf! I have more on that at the end of this chapter.**

**Worthy: I've mentioned it. I can't go into too much detail, though.**

**SnicketSister: Thanks! More on the characters at the end of this chapter.**

**Dizzy Izzy: Glad you liked it!**

**Starryeyedlooser025 (all 5 times): thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!**

**Ekilow lettyion: Here it is!**

**Deep Within: Yeah, I was aiming for a more mature Klaus. I guess he's in his late teens then. Also, the correct grammar would be "sisterly" and "brotherly." **

**Jessica01: I wonder that sometimes too.**

**Superbrain: Here he is!**

**And, finally, the disclaimer: Do you really think I own it? …cause I don't! (man, that was lame)**

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**And now, the one and only Quigley Quagmire!**

To everything on earth, there must be a beginning, middle, and end. Everything must have an explanation, everything has to be proven, for me to ever have any chance to believe it. Everything had to happen for a reason, I used to think.

You see, in my life, I need to have everything proven to be at peace. I need to be sure what tomorrow will bring, and why, and what will happen because of it, to feel remotely safe. I never feel really safe, though.

To you, I may sound insecure. Maybe I am. You may ask me why I am this way. And I am writing this to tell you.

It all started with the shattering of glass. I have always hated when glass is broken. It is yet another disaster, yet another reminder the world isn't perfect, and that unfortunate things occur constantly. In this instance, the glass broken was a window in my parents' house.

The next thing I knew, I was under my house in a dark passageway, shut out from the world and my family. My mother told me I would be safe there.

I didn't feel safe, though, and I never have felt safe since.

But there had to be a reason she thought it was safe. There just had to be.

And so I walked. I don't know how long it was. It could have been one hour, two hours, half a day, several days. I kept walking down that endless dirt path, my eyes never adjusting to the infinite darkness that crowded around me, the loud silence only broken by the soft clunk of my shoes growing heavier by the second, one by one, step by step. I became unaware of my exhaustion, my increasing hunger, even my confusion, as I was enrobed in complete and utter darkness. I thought it would never end.

But it did come to an end. It ended when I was surrounded by the very thing that started my journey: glass. The glare of the light outside hit me full force, as did all my questions. Why did the path lead me here? Why were all of the cages deserted?

And one question kept haunting me: what happened to my family?

This was answered the next day, but not the way I had expected it. No one came to tell me, no one seemed to be looking for me. I, as any stranger would, read my parents' grim fate in the morning paper. And that my brother and sister were sent off to a boarding school.

I just didn't understand it. How people could be so merciless as to _sensationalize_ the death of others, how they couldn't feel guilty making a profit out of it. I now understood what Duncan meant about journalism more than ever. Sometimes, it _does_ seem to be all about money.

But in spite of this, I knew that there were also good, sincere people that just wanted to find the truth. My siblings were proof of that. And so, I decided that there must be sincere people who could help me along the way. It never occurred to me that I probably wouldn't make it alone, or that it was ice cold outside, or that I could be spotted and reported, since everyone thought I was dead. But that's how I felt: dead to the world, in many ways.

And so, I haphazardly packed and was on my way, but I then ran into the voice of reason, in the form of Jacques Snicket.

Jacques Snicket, in a way, was a mixed blessing. He had the answers to my questions, and lifted my hopes up so that I could even forget all the fires, all the misery. And yet, he never had time to answer my questions. He didn't drop my hopes, though – he just left them hovering, caught midway, always searching for the answers, but never finding them.

But Jacques Snicket showed me that I wasn't alone. There were so many others who had families torn apart, friends who betrayed them, promises not kept, all because of the simple battle of good and evil. He even showed me pictures of these families. All of these people were different, but they all had the same eyes: eyes that had seen pain, eyes that had no laughter, eyes whose countless tears had gone unnoticed.

But certain pairs of eyes intrigued me, and made me want to know more: The Baudelaires' eyes. More specifically, Violet Baudelaire.

I am sure you have heard the phrase, "a picture is worth a thousand words." I, myself, have never liked this phrase, since, as I have said, things need to be proven and make sense for me to believe them. But in the case of Violet Baudelaire, this adage that I had grown to hate made perfect sense. Violet has the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen, but there was much more to them than beauty, much more than a camera could ever capture. At the time, I was too young to understand what that thing was.

Violet's eyes were a mystery. Another mystery to add to the complex codes and passages of V.F.D.

Jacques Snicket soon left after he gave me the Baudelaires' picture. He promised he would be back. But I could tell, by his eyes, that he wasn't sure if he could live to keep that promise.

And so he didn't.

But I still waited. He had to come back, he just had to. In my naivete, I thought it impossible that he wouldn't come back. He made a promise, he would keep it.

But I realized, as I waited day after day, that Jacques would never come back. He would always come when I needed something, no matter what. Another person I had learned to care about had faded away, like smoke from a fire. And there wasn't a thing I could do about it.

Jacques had been my protector. But he was gone. I was alone, and defenseless. But I didn't care. I would find my siblings, no matter what. It was a promise I made to myself, and I had to keep it.

But as the first chapter of my journey ended, the second one began as the first: with the shattering of glass. Dr. Montgomery's hard work, like everything else, went up in a mere mist.

As I ran out of the burning house, my tears mixed with the dust, I believe that childhood ended, slipping away as quickly as my tears, and adulthood began. Whatever naivete I had that reassured me that everything would be alright, no matter what, was gone. I ran from the fire, not able to look back on the innocence, the protection that I had left behind.

I don't know how long I ran. I only remember when I reached Paltryville, a town that certainly lived up to its name. There, I finally regained my senses. No one was looking for me, and even if they were, it certainly wasn't with good intentions. I was really a volunteer now. I needed to fend for myself. In spite of myself, I felt a sort of pride in this new revelation. And this pride led me to a courage that I thought I could never have.

With this courage, I traveled through Paltryville and went countless miles, my determination only growing fiercer when I learned of the kidnapping of my siblings. I lived on my righteous anger as I survived as I felt a true volunteer could.

At times, I would pass rivers in my journey. I would always look in them, and see myself as I certainly hadn't looked before my tragic tale began. My eyes looked haunted, like the many others that had similar fates to mine. But this didn't dampen my spirits. Rather, it made me even more determined.

I admit, when I eventually ran into the Snow Scouts, I thought that it would probably be pointless traveling with them. But even the most accomplished of volunteers jump to conclusions, and I was no exception. I wouldn't call meeting the Baudelaires _pointless_, would you?

Violet and Klaus Baudelaire were like the eye of a hurricane for me. In this raging storm of The Schism that we were caught in, we were a sort of oasis to each other, where we could share our knowledge and attempt to solve our confusion. I even thought that, just maybe, things would go right for once after all.

But I was wrong. This third chapter of my journey began with a figurative shattering of glass, seeing the V.F.D. headquarters destroyed. There were fewer things more haunting than the lost beauty, the lost safety that had been in the midst of the mountains. I felt completely lost.

That is, except when I was around Violet.

I thought Violet's eyes were beautiful in the worn and torn picture that Jacques gave me that currently resides in a safe, along with my other valuables. But they were nothing, **nothing**, compared to her real eyes. I will spare you of every pondering I ever had about her beauty, how I viewed it, how I longed for her presence for so long. I will spare you of every thing I love about her, those little idiosyncrasies that one will only find if they have been thrown into the spiraling world of emotions and sense that is love. I both loved and hated this new feeling that I had about Violet, though I wasn't sure why.

But fate is cruel. Fate tore the woman I loved from me, fate threw me into the gushing ice waters of the Stricken Stream. Fate also threw me, however, into the path of Kit Snicket.

Kit Snicket reminded me of her brother in so many ways. She, too, had those same haunting eyes. She had also lost the one she loved most. We spoke the same language, on so many levels. I did feel safe with her.

But I could never feel safe while my siblings were in danger. Duncan, Isadora and I were linked only how triplets are. I felt and understood their feelings even more than I did Violet's. This, also, I could not understand.

However, as I was searching for Duncan and Isadora in the sky, I realized what that feeling was. It was the bonds of love and blood. And I now understood why I loved and hated it. Love was unpredictable, you couldn't plan it out like everything else in life. It took you to the heights of your emotions, and could drive you to be a person you didn't even know you were. You couldn't live with it at times, but you could never live without it.

And now that I have reached the end of my tale, I suppose you understand why I am insecure. My life has never been secure since my parents died. But that doesn't mean I hate it. My journey, if anything, has taught me to be a risk taker. And by risking my life, I saved it.

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I know this chapter was long anticipated, and I hope I didn't disappoint you! I feel like Quigley's POV was a little too rambling, but you should try picking what to add and what to take out. I wanted to get this done before "Goblet of Fire" comes out, so that I would have plenty of holiday recreation time!

I had a wonderful Halloween! As Ron Weasley says, "seriously good haul this year!" I got lots of salty stuff too, including Doritos, which I am eating right now. Mmm, cheesy…

Anyway, guess what! I have HOMEWORK for you! Mwahahaha… aren't I naughty? But seriously, it's just two questions!

Firstly, the list of characters for the last seven chapters: Count Olaf, Esme Squalor (she is subject to change), Mr. Poe (he is too), Fernald, Fiona, Kit Snicket, and Lemony Snicket himself! The question is, who should I do first? I'm thinking Olaf, but it's really up to you reviewers!

Secondly, when I do write Count Olaf, there are two choices for the style of his POV. Should he be:

Hilariously unreasonable and stupid?

Or a misunderstood villain who we can identify with?

Again, this is also up to you! Please review!

Ugh! I have "Do the Hippogriff" stuck in my head right now…


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